


Respect

by Hectopascal



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:56:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2327810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hectopascal/pseuds/Hectopascal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These three chuckleheads have the perfect plan. They’re going to overthrow Yondu, fearsome Ravager Captain, and there’s nothing that’s going to stop them. They don’t account for Peter Quill, Terran abductee/house pet/baby Ravager in training.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respect

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS are at the bottom of the chapter if you want ‘em. If you want to scroll into this kinda dark fic cold, that’s cool too.

*

**It starts with peaches and ends in catastrophe (or victory, from a certain point of view.)**

*

The only reason Peter was poking around the storeroom in the first place was because he had the strangest craving for peaches. Maybe he had dreamed about them last night, of that long ago cherished Terran ( _Earth, no, it’s Earth_ ) fruit, all the colors between yellow and red, round and fuzzy and soft cupped in the palm of his hands.

But he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember the taste. Probably like peaches, which was…what? Less than helpful. Thus the probably fruitless (pun _absolutely_ intended) search through dusty shelves and weird silvery cubes with alien writing on the side, which Peter was pretty sure served some kind of can/jar function.

He stumbled onto a nefarious plot entirely by accident. His life was fresh and exciting like that.

“—ook, I’m telling you, we can do it now.”

Peter stopped moving, bent over and peering at the lowest row of nonperishables. He didn’t think there was anyone down here with him and it was likely that the owner of the voice felt the same because Peter knew that tone of furtiveness and hissed conspiracy. Somebody—or rather, multiple somebodies—were Up To Something.

He tilted his head towards the sound and paid closer attention. Information was a kind of currency and Peter was always short on cash. Maybe he’d hear something interesting. Planning for a solo job? _Ohhh_ , maybe they were going to try to steal from Yondu? Peter nearly snorted. Yeah, that wouldn’t end well. For them.

“And I’m telling you that we should wait.”

“What for? You ain’t getting any younger and your spine’s shrinking by the minute.”

Three people, Peter tallied mentally, two for, one in favor of delaying the job. One never knew what details could be useful later.

“I don’t want to get myself killed, no. Unlike some people, I have plans after we pull this off.”

“How could I forget? You and your stupid fucking—”

“Hey!”

“Shut up, the both of you!”

Silence fell. Peter put a hand over his mouth should his mirthless smile accidentally slip into a betraying snicker. He’d put money (if he had any to bet) on Voice 3 offing Voice 2 before they accomplished anything noteworthy. Clearly, neither had the brains or the brawn to back them up as good leaders.

They should take a page out of Yondu’s book, Peter thought, nodding smartly. He was an asshole of the highest degree, but he had a sly cunning about him and was more dangerous than all these idiots combined on his worst day.

“Calm down,” Voice 1 said, quieter. (Ringleader, Peter pegged, feeling reasonably sure, but a mediocre one. He listened harder.) “We’ve been over this a dozen times, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“But still…”

“But nothing. It will work. Now, Roane, what happens at zero nine hundred?”

( _Roane_ , Peter committed the name to memory, _Voice 3._ Geez, these guys really were amateurs. Who used real names when they were scheming up trouble? In an unsecured storage room, no less. Really now. It was just sad.)

A sigh. “I fuck with the wiring. Alarm goes off. Hell breaks loose.”

“Which. Wire.”

“D9.” (It was weird, Peter could _hear_ the scowl.) “It’s blue. Plugged into the upper left quadrant of the electrical board on the first deck. Do you want me to tell you how long it is too?”

“No, that’s fine. Dugal, zero nine ten?”

( _Voice 2_ , Peter shook his head pityingly, _Dugal._ Aka mister plan-for-the-future.)

“I tell the others that we’re moving. They shut the shafts and freeze the turbo lifts while W’jon and me take the bridge. Priya overrides all the door locks but the ones we want open from her position at the hub.”

Oh ho. The plot thickened. So there were more than the three morons standing around in the dark talking smack. No way. There was absolutely no way they were planning a hostile takeover of _Yondu’s ship_. Were they all _insane?_

“That’s right. And we know that bastard Kraglin’s shift ends at nine fifteen, so he’ll be tired and his guard will be down. Kill him first, you understand? Then the other three.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

Peter’s smile died a fast death.

“And at nine fifteen? Roane?”

“We throw up the noise cancelling field. Yondu’s arrow becomes a useless stick of metal. I get five guys to cover the escape routes and the fucker gets trapped by his own security system.”

“Then you kill him. No dicking around. No giving him a fair chance. Just kill him, preferably before he even sees you.”

“Fine.” In a muttered aside. “Just got to ruin the fun in it, don’t you.”

“After Yondu’s dead, we unlock the lifts, regroup at the bridge and announce the change in leadership. I don’t think anyone will protest too hard, but you know what to do if they feel some sort of…unnatural attachment to our late captain. Okay?”

“Sure, Goni.”

“Dugal, you good?”

“I’m good.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic. We do it tomorrow. Agreed?”

There were assenting noises from both parties.

“All right, now back to work. We don’t want anyone getting suspicious before the fireworks start, do we?”

They left, footsteps echoing through a different door than the one Peter used. Before it swished shut, one of them laughed, loud and startling. Peter never so much as twitched.

He exhaled, and it was only a little bit shaky. So. Not just a hostile takeover then. An assassination. And a pretty freaking well planned one, too.

Peter sat down, back against the shelf, and bit his lip. His hand fell instinctively to his waist, where the soft leather sheath reassured him almost as much as the solid handle of the small blade hidden there.

 _Roane, Dugal, Goni. W’jon. Priya._ Peter mouthed the names to himself, committing them to memory. And more Ravagers who he didn’t know. His foot tapped a fast, and almost entirely silent, beat against the floor. He wanted his Walkman like a physical _ache_.

Well. This would not do at all.

Peter took a deep breath and let it out hard. He rotated his neck until it cracked and arched his spine. It felt good. In a minute, he’d get up. In a minute, he’d abandon his quest for peaches. In a minute, he’d leave the storeroom much like the mutineers had earlier, with a spring in his step and a smile on his face.

It wouldn’t do for anyone to get suspicious, now would it?

*

The thing was Peter didn’t like Yondu much. At all.

He didn’t like the terrifying man who yelled and smacked him around, casual as you please, when he’d first been dragged onboard kicking, screaming, and sobbing. Peter liked him even less when his six year old self nailed the alien who had him by the collar in the balls and Peter got hit so hard he blacked out for hours.

Peter hadn’t liked him then and he still didn’t like him now. There had been times when that dislike tipped over into outright hatred and not only would Peter have been happy to see Yondu dead, he would have pulled the trigger himself with a smile and a song in his heart.

That said, Peter had no real reason to do anything at all about the coming coup but stay the hell out of it. In the chaos, he could steal one of the smaller skippers and book it before someone got renewed cannibalistic ideas. It wasn’t likely anyone with the ability to do anything about it would care.

And he was thinking about doing just that. He probably would have. Six— No, _two_ months ago, he would have and damn everyone else, but.

But. That really was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it?

Fucking traitors with their fuck awful timing. Peter groaned.

*

Peter slept in the cargo hold.

He always had, and probably always would. He wasn’t good enough to warrant a bunk or even the time and energy to string up another hammock (and they had plenty) that most of the crew caught zzz’s in.

It was colder there than anywhere else in the ship, of course, and for the most part Peter handled it okay. So Yondu might decide to sell him somewhere nasty in the future, at least he wouldn’t freeze to death while he waited.

Peter had erected a nest for himself in one of the more secluded, and more easily defensible, corners. Most of it was clothes, old shirts and jackets and pants that he used to pad the floor. He had one blanket, which was thin but warm, which he had liberated from its previous owner.

He slept completely dressed, shoes and all, snuggled down among the discarded garments and wrapped in the blanket like a burrito. It was only a _little_ uncomfortable but he’d rather have a zipper digging into his cheek all night than numb toes and shivers that never stopped.

He was in the process of bedding down, thinking wistfully of mittens—and were those even a thing in space?—when he was grabbed from behind without warning.

Peter’s instincts were, after years of sneak attacks and pick-pocketing, fairly decent if he did say so himself. He didn’t hesitate. He sunk his teeth into the hand over his mouth and kicked backwards, trying to hit something soft and delicate.

He missed.

The arm around his stomach was like steel, squeezing until he could hardly breathe through the light-headed dizziness. The hand over his mouth only shifted, clamping down on his nose too and tightening, which made it all worse.

Fuzzy spots danced across his vision and he couldn’t breathe, _shit_. Peter was hauled back against his assailant’s chest and his feet dangled above the ground as he clawed at exposed skin, trying to get loose, twist free, do damage, something, anything.

An unfamiliar voice whispered in his ear and Peter almost missed it, the rushing waterfall in his head was so loud. “Aren’t you a pretty thing, hm? Don’t fight, you’ll like this, you’ll like it, I promise. Lovely thing like you, I’m going to eat you up.”

_What? No, no, no, let me go!_

Peter struggled harder. He flailed a hand backwards trying to get a grip on hair so he could yank but there wasn’t anything but air, air not in his lungs and it was starting to really hurt now. He bit again and redoubled his efforts to escape with no results.

The body behind him pushed forward, kinda, with its hips and something hard (like a knife or the butt of a gun, his mind whispered as it drowned) rubbed against his back and terror flooded him in a wave and he let out a muffled howl.

He wanted out. He wanted away. He wanted— _MOM._

The arm around his stomach eased a little, a hand creeping under his shirt, and Peter kept biting down, tasting blood, yelling, thrashing and he knew it would do no good, it never did him any good to fight but he couldn’t help it. _He couldn’t help—_

There was a short, sharp whistle and a meaty _thwack!_ sound. The resistance vanished and Peter scrambled free, eyes darting around to see the body of a man he didn’t know, couldn’t remember seeing, dark purple blood pooling around his skull, and Yondu standing a good distance away, just watching.

Peter opened his mouth and started coughing even as he hurried to rub tears from his cheeks before Yondu saw, too late.

“Ridiculous,” Yondu had scoffed while Peter tried to make himself look like less of a wreck. “Can’t even defend yourself. How much more useless can you get, boy?”

And Peter would have protested that even if it was actually, disgustingly, true, but he was busy getting reacquainted with oxygen, hey, buddy, I missed you.

“This don’t happen again, you hear?” Yondu grunted, before turning and walking away.

And yeah, Peter heard. He heard that what was not going to be happening was not…whatever the dead guy had been trying. It was the help, the saving. The, bitter as the word tasted in Peter’s mouth, rescue. Yondu wouldn’t help him again.

Peter was fine with that. He had done it the once, for whatever unfathomable reasons Yondu did anything and that was enough.

The next day he found the knife in its sheath on top of his blanket. Peter strapped it to his hip and never took it off.

*

So, there was that. And while it might not look like much, it had been _enough._

Peter might be growing up among murderers and liars and thieves, but he understood the concept of a debt to be paid and he fully intended to level his before the day was out.

*

“Computer, locate crew member Dugal,” Peter said clearly, one finger pressed to the screen halfway up the hall. Yondu might skimp on everything from food to salaries but his security was top notch. It paid to have that kind of (evidently deserved) paranoia.

“Located,” the tiny speakers announced in a neutral monotone. “Crew member Dugal is in his assigned quarters.”

Peter sighed. “And where are crew member Dugal’s assigned quarters?”

Two seconds passed as something internal whirred louder. Then, “Classified.”

Peter blinked. He stared at the screen in disbelief. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“Request denied.”

“You piece of _shit_.”

“Request denied.”

Was it his imagination or did the damn thing sound smug?

Peter moaned. Why did he do this to himself? “On the behalf of Yondu Udonta, set information pertinent to search as unclassified.”

“Voice recognition failure.”

Oh, yeah, there was _definitely_ some smugness there. Unbelievable.

“Fucking—” Peter broke off, swearing.

He’d never find any of the mutineers by going door to door. He’d never even properly seen anybody. He needed the damn computer to work, which would mean pulling out his ace, the best-cheater-take-all card he’d been saving for an emergency.

“If Yondu ever finds out about this, he’s going to kill me,” Peter muttered to himself, thumping the wall next to the screen with one fist. “It isn’t even worth it.”

He thought, for a moment, about worth.

He remembered a conversation he’d had once with Kraglin—though it had been more of a lecture really—before a job involving a not terribly reputable bank. Peter thought about all the words he hadn’t understood when Kraglin had been telling him about them, but maybe did now.

Portfolios. Investments. Interest. A neat enough concept, even if Peter had been a bit skeptical of its actual existence. It seemed too good to be true. And in the Ravagers world, if something seemed too good, it probably was.

But Kraglin had reassured him. It was a real thing, interest. Money making money. A lump sum increasing over time without you ever needing to touch it.

“The trick,” Kraglin had continued while Peter tried his best to listen attentively, “is that the amount it increases by is so small, you can barely notice.”

“Sounds pretty useless then,” Peter had commented.

“No, no, no. You see, the more you have, the more you make.”

“You said it was hardly anything.”

“Well, yeah, but it adds up.”

When Peter remained unconvinced, Kraglin had grumbled, “Who is the man with the numbers here, me or you?” and then laid out an example Peter scarcely recalled, but involved a single unit and doubling it daily until you had a million or so.

In about a month.

“Pretty cool, right?” Kraglin had asked.

“Pretty cool,” Peter had confirmed honestly.

But it started slow, Peter knew. Chump change. Alms for a beggar. An hour long validation of a parking spot. Maybe enough for a good hot meal from a street vendor not picky about hygiene.

It had gone from that—just that—to more wealth than Peter had ever seen his life. And once it got going, that sucker had moved _fast._

Peter thought about (his) worth, about interest, about transition speed and how something could go from not-worth-the-effort to five-months-of-planning-and-a-backstabbing-heist-job in a snap and a single cycle.

He swore. Then he jabbed the screen again and said, precisely, “Captain authorization code.”

The first and only time he’d heard it, Peter had thought his translator was glitching, but no, Yondu’s password was really just nigh impronouncable gibberish that didn’t actually mean a thing. Peter repeated it, one hacking syllable after the next, perfectly. He had a decent enough memory when properly motivated.

And in the beginning, he had been _very_ motivated at all times.

 _Roane, Dugal, Goni. W’jon. Priya,_ he reminded himself. _Got it._

“Where are crew member Dugal’s assigned quarters?”

Pause. “Access granted.”

“Why, thank you,” Peter grumbled sarcastically, rubbing his throat. “No rush.”

And he wondered what he’d be worth now in Yondu’s sharp eyes.

*

Dugal hummed as he strolled around his room. He was of high enough value that he actually got one of his own for his acclaimed piloting skills and he did appreciate it. Goni was right. There was nothing to worry about, they’d planned for every eventuality and everything was under control.

 _Tomorrow_ , he thought with a shiver of anticipation, _tomorrow I’ll own it all._

That hardass nutjob Yondu would never give him another order and that alone was almost worth the risk he was taking. Never having to lick that _varthin_ Centaurian’s boots again. Never having to follow his insane rules. And the money didn’t hurt.

Yeah, he was ready for all of it. He knew his part backwards and forwards. It was all smooth sailing.

The door chime rang, spoiling his pre-victory pat on the back. What now?

“Who is it?” he called, stifling the _fuck off_ he wanted to yell right through the wall. He was celebrating, damn it, he wanted solitude to enjoy himself fully.

“Roane,” a muffled voice replied. “It’s important!”

Dugal’s heart dropped into his intestines. Oh hell. He crossed the room in long strides and hit the button to open the door. “What is it, what’s happen—”

Something hard cracked into his chin and the world went instantly, shockingly, dark.

It felt like only a moment passed between closing his eyes and opening them again, but it must have been longer because when Dugal regained consciousness, he was still in his room, but tied to a chair.

His hands were behind his back, his ankles were stuck to the legs and a long length of bungee cord was squeezing his chest quite painfully against the back of the chair. All his weapons were gone, even the thin knife that was undetectable once slipped into his boot.

Not a good sign. Someone clearly knew what they were doing. Which had to mean that the worst had happened and Yondu had gotten wind of their plan somehow.

Oh Rau. Dugal screwed his eyes shut and forced down every explanation he could offer and panicked babbling. Everyone had seen what Yondu did to his enemies and it was always vicious, merciless, and often terribly gory.

But he did seem to treat the ones who kept control of themselves a little bit better—Dugal was, at this point, hoping for nothing more than a fast death—so he took a deep breath and opened his eyes again, ready to go to the end with some dignity.

“Yondu, I can explain,” he said as calmly and reasonably as he could. “If you’d just listen – ”

“Not Yondu,” a strange, higher-pitched than he was expecting voice interrupted. “An’ you don’t gotta explain neither.”

_What?_

Dugal craned his head around and saw, of all the crazy things, Yondu’s Terran pet lounging on his bed, flicking through a pornographic holovid.

“I like this one best,” the kid explained, jumping fifteen seconds at a time like he was racing to get to the end. “I think the girl’s tentacles are fake but the one on the guy is real. Probably.”

_What in the hells?_

Dugal gaped. He’d never much cared for this particular acquisition of Yondu’s. It was a creepy thing, always bobbing around in complete silence and staring slack-jawed at the most basic of commodities. He wasn’t there when it was brought in, but for a long time, he’d simply thought it was too stupid to talk, only scream.

He certainly didn’t think it was intelligent enough to manage knots or ambushes. What did they call it again? Kal? Cuel?

“So,” Yondu’s pet said, tossing the vid aside and staring at him, which remained as disturbing as ever, “I heard you guys earlier.” It paused, maybe waiting for input before continuing, “In the storeroom. About killing Yondu and taking over the ship? You remember that, right?”

Dugal remembered what a stupid place it had been to meet and how it had made him nervous and Roane had been more provoking than usual and had they _really_ been caught in the act by this…this thing?! Apparently so.

He was more humiliated than terrified now.

“Anyway, I heard you mention, um,” it held up a hand and started ticking off fingers, “Goni, Roane, W’jon, and Priya, yeah?”

Dugal lips firmed with every name blithely mentioned until the kid was blinking at him with something as far from concern as you could possibly get and still be in the same spectrum.

“So, my question is, who are the rest?”

“The rest?” Dugal asked stiffly.

“Of your, what’ch’ma’callits, companions? The ones who’re in on it? If you could tell me their names and where I could find them, I’d really appreciate it.” The kid nodded earnestly and gestured towards him.

“Are you…serious?”

“Yup.”

Dugal couldn’t help it. Really couldn’t. He snorted, and then burst into laughter.

The kid—Quill, that was it, weird Terran equivalent to the precursor of the stylus—grinned at him, apparently genuinely amused. “So, you’ll tell me?”

“Ha _-ha_ , no. Of course not. What are you, insane?”

Quill looked briefly disappointed. “I could always get Yondu if you’d prefer to talk to him.”

Dugal took a deep breath and let it out evenly, trying not to show just how much the idea of it scared the absolute piss out of him.

“So why haven’t you then?”

“No reason,” the kid shrugged and rolled off the bed. He clanged when he landed and Dugal’s eyes widened to see the impressively large wrench dangling from his hand. His head gave a particularly fierce throb. Right, so, that’s probably what the brat hit him with.

“I just wanted to try this myself first.”

“Try what?” Dugal asked despite himself. He was quite sure that he didn’t want to know.

“This here, ah,” Quill made a vague gesture around the room, “interrogation.”

“Interrogation,” Dugal repeated flatly, not a question.

“Yea-up. Sure is.”

For a long moment, Dugal didn’t do anything but stare in disbelief. The little Terran was insane, and this proved it.

“Look— kid, Quill,” he said at last, “if you let me go right now I’ll see to it that you don’t get in trouble for any of this, okay?”

“Um.” Quill tapped the toe of his foot against the floor, apparently thinking it over. He hefted the wrench in his arms, cradling it to his scrawny chest. “You sure?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Dugal breathed, so relieved he couldn’t stand it. Insane and stupid, but then Yondu had always had the strangest damn taste in toys. “One hundred percent. I swear to you. No trouble at all. All you have to do is untie me.”

Quill stared at him for a long minute—Dugal resolutely did _not_ shudder—and broke into a huge, gap-toothed grin. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“No, not really.” Quill shrugged, still smiling like an imbecile. Then he hauled the wrench up over his shoulder, shifted his balance, and swung with all the strength in his skinny body.

Dugal screamed over the sound of his knee shattering with a deceptively soft crunch. It had been unexpected. He had not braced himself for pain beforehand and oh, was there pain.

His private quarters were quite nice. Luxurious (or the Ravager equivalent) to a fault. Also, there was a soundproof setting right beside the door itself, activated light blinking a merry green. It had not been such before Dugal had been attacked.

So, he thought deliriously, that was why the Terran had not gagged him. It had not been a foolish mistake as he had been hoping, but rather unnecessary.

The mad child did not care how much noise he made.

Pain spiked, jagged and sharp, when Quill nudged his leg with the wrench, looking fascinated.

And Dugal cried out again, knowing it would do him no good.

Almost predictably, it didn’t matter at all.

“Now, _about_ those other guys who’re in on it…”

**Author's Note:**

> Casual murder, referenced physical abuse, attempted (unsuccessful) noncon involving a minor, amateur torture hour, and Yondu’s particularly weird brand of affection. Nobody’s very nice.
> 
> Also, yes, they have bungee cord in space. It’s stupidly useful. More than one people have their own version of it. 
> 
> Inspired by Kink Meme Prompt: Peter earned Yondu’s respect by discovering a plot to overthrow the Ravager Captain and killing all those involved.
> 
> Not gonna lie, feel kinda sorry for the villains here. They are going to have a very hard time of it.


End file.
